


Grasping At Shadows

by HannaM



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/F, F/M, Genderqueer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:55:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaM/pseuds/HannaM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the land of the dead, Eurydice seeks an identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasping At Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/gifts).



The dead do dream.   
  
Though whether it is dream, precisely, or memory, I could not say.  
  
Who was I?  
  
Who had I been?  
  
There was one certainty in the underworld, and that was Persephone. She was always a she, was always my queen. Always loved me, even if I sometimes forgot if I loved her or not.  
  
"How did I die?"   
  
Persephone's pretty mouth creased with a pout. "What a morbid question. Whyever would you want to remember a thing like that?"  
  
I thought about this for a while, undeterred by the heat of the goddess's fingers twining themselves in my hair. "Because it is mine," I said finally. "My death."   
  
It felt like the right answer. With confidence came clarity- I was a woman, surely, and my name was Eur-  
  
Persephone burst into laughter, and my focus burst like a soap bubble. "How odd you spirits are!"  
  
I felt sure she was mocking me and tried to pull away, but she held me fast.   
  
"I like it," she murmured against my neck (was I taller than her?).   
  
"It was a bite."  
  
"An animal?" I slurred. A host of images flew through my mind-   
a hissing snake, a dull guillotine, a gleaming needle, a lizard, lunging towards me suddenly and tearing off my arm  
  
The goddess's smile was enigmatic. "You died by bite," was all she would say.  
  
...  
  
The year was 1605. I was a man, and my name was Eugéne. I was wealthy because of my birth and parentage, but I was unhappy, because my lover, the musician Orphée, was forever leaving me.  
  
"Every song I play is for you," he cries passionately. "Why do you care if I am with you in person or not? My love is with you always."  
  
"Because I didn't fall in love with you for your music alone!" I shout. "If you are never with me, I might as well love a shadow!"  
  
"I don't have the freedom you have," Orphee says, refusing to meet my eyes. "If the world knew I loved you... there are men who would never commission me again. The church already dislikes my work-"  
  
"So you love the church and these men more than you love me."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Then give it up, and let me pay for everything."  
  
"I cannot."  
  
...  
  
It's gone again. I am a featureless shade, gaining color only when it serves my queen.   
  
I feel, rather than see Hades pass by. When I have been with Persephone, he frightens me. The vestiges of mortality tell me that he will be jealous, that he will fear her love of me.   
  
Instead, he ignores me completely. Hades is confident enough that Persephone will never leave him that he cannot be intimidated by a lover.  
  
Perhaps he has favorites among the dead himself.   
  
I am summoned to Persephone's chambers, where she is arranging her golden hair with the help of a mirror.   
  
"Did you miss me?"   
  
She must be teasing- I never left her side.   
  
"Oh, the dead can't tell time. I always forget. It's been six months, my darling."  
  
Six months? I don't remember what that is, but I know it's supposed to be long.   
  
How long have I been dead?  
  
...  
  
The year was 1985. I was barely aware of the fact that I was a woman, tossing and turning in sweaty sheets. The white lady haunted my dreams- my other lover. Orphea was terribly jealous of her, and had tried to separate us.   
  
"I thought artists were supposed to be into drugs too," I had joked, but she didn't think it was very funny.   
  
Taking care of me, I thought, my head throbbing, was killing her as surely as the withdrawal was killing me. Orphea had no time to write music when she was cooking for me and talking me out of nightmares. The only reason we hadn't been kicked out of our apartment was because my brother paid the rent. My brother, who tolerated my gayness, if not my habit. Our parents tolerated neither.   
  
It was a good night- Orphea gave me a sponge bath and I didn't yell at her, I didn't beg her to bring back the needles she'd sold to other junkies. She kissed my forehead and sang me to sleep with one of the lullabies she'd written just for me.  
  
...  
  
No one sings in the underworld. Just as we shades have no color, we have no music.   
  
"Don't you want for music?" I ask Persephone as she teases my skin, growing warmer under her touch.   
  
The question angers her, for reasons I cannot fathom. "You would ask about music," the goddess says darkly. "I suppose you can't hear it?"  
  
"Hear it?"  
  
"That damn poet has been playing constantly since the day you came to us," my queen grumbles, rubbing her temples in an oddly human gesture. "It's giving me a headache. I told Hades to go and shut her up, but he says he likes it."  
  
Something in me turns over. Even if I can't hear the music, I can almost feel it, buzzing across my face, which is taking more concrete form. My hands are masculine again, reaching for something just out of grasp-  
  
Persephone's mouth closes on mine, and for the first time she brings cold to me instead of warmth. Her touch makes me stony, and I can't remember what I was reaching for.   
  
Heat. First a trickle dripping down my spine, spreading to a hand's stroke on my lower back, and then a blazing boil burrowing into the deepest fibers of my being as I suddenly hear, hear all the instruments I had forgotten the names for exploding in my eardrums, an entire orchestra swelling with the passion that only she could possibly express.  
  
My Orpheus, calling to me by my soul's name.   
  
"She'll never get past Cerebus," Persephone says, but for the first time I hear a tremor of uncertainty in her voice. "The living aren't allowed here."  
  
"She's come this far," I reply. "Why should she stop now?"  
  
I find that I am perfectly capable of standing up, and walking away, leaving the goddess of the underworld staring at my suddenly-definite back.   
  
Perhaps it is my lover's music entrancing me now rather than the charms of a goddess, but the sensation of stone under my feet suggests otherwise.

There is another feeling welling up in me, one I had almost forgot the name of.

Hope.


End file.
